


watch me unravel

by cumaeansibyl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Coming In Pants, Domestic Fluff, Frottage, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Nipple Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, but it's really really mild I promise, it's just "I stole my boyfriend's giant shirt and he lost his mind about it", no beta I'm impatient for validation, why isn't "domestic smut" a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:46:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27705056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumaeansibyl/pseuds/cumaeansibyl
Summary: Crowley nabs Aziraphale's jumper. Aziraphale has some unexpected feelings about it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 55
Kudos: 288
Collections: Society for the Promotion of Underappreciated Sex Acts (Good Omens Local 666)





	watch me unravel

**Author's Note:**

> There's a lot of adorable, perfectly innocent art of Crowley swimming in Aziraphale's giant sweaters. I love that image so much I made porn about it.

Aziraphale blows gently on his mug of tea to cool it. This isn’t strictly necessary, but he likes having it too hot to drink at first. At the perfect temperature, he wouldn’t feel this deep, pervading heat through the ceramic, warming his hands so nicely on a chilly morning. It sends a pleasant quiver through him, and he wiggles his shoulders just to feel the age-worn softness of his flannel dressing gown against his skin.

He hears scaly feet on the stairs and smiles. They'll have plenty of time to visit the farmer's market, even allowing for Crowley's grousing about what the bushes overgrowing the narrow lanes might do to the Bentley's paint job (not that they ever _have_ done it, they're not stupid). They don't need much today, but he doesn't like to be rushed. And then they can — 

Crowley appears, wearing the jumper Aziraphale had on yesterday: oatmeal-coloured, Shetland wool, a chunky cable knit. The shoulders droop halfway down Crowley’s thin biceps and the hem hangs around his thighs. It looks like he isn’t wearing anything underneath it, and Aziraphale’s comfortable morning train of thought shudders to an emergency halt.

“Mrng,” Crowley grunts, pointing at the espresso machine to start it. He reaches for his mug, on the top shelf, and the jumper pulls up enough to show deep red silk stretched over the pert curve of his arse.

Aziraphale reaches out and grabs the drooping end of Crowley’s sleeve — _my sleeve_ , he thinks, _my jumper, mine_ — and pulls. He’s only got the sleeve, not Crowley’s hand, and nothing happens except the neck stretching out to show one bare, freckled shoulder.

“Hm?” Crowley says absently, not turning to look at him yet, not seeing the way his eyes widen and his breath comes short through slack lips.

Aziraphale snorts in frustration and grabs Crowley’s arm, feeling how lean it is in his hands, inside the thick sleeve. He pulls sharply and the demon topples backward, landing in Aziraphale’s lap with a thump and a yelp.

“Hey, what’s —” Crowley begins, and then Aziraphale wraps both arms around him, pulling him down and back against his stiffening cock. He clutches at the front of the jumper, feeling the way the twisting knitted cables compress in his grip, the way they rub over Crowley’s skin.

“Look at you,” Aziraphale growls. “You look, oh...” He normally has an endless supply of loving flatteries for his serpent, but of all the pretty things he loves to say, the only word left in his head is _mine, mine, mine_. He mouths at Crowley's long neck just under his ear, follows the tendon down to the warm quivering pulse point, and bites there, hard. Crowley gasps and arches his back, writhing up into Aziraphale’s kneading hands. Aziraphale scrapes thin skin with his teeth, pulls it into his mouth, and sucks insistently. He prefers being bitten to biting, but right now he wants to stake his claim, to lay it red and aching all over Crowley’s white throat. 

The jumper’s too thick to feel fine details through, but the way Crowley rubs his chest against the coarse knit, chasing the friction, tells Aziraphale all he needs to know. He pushes his nose into Crowley’s shoulder and breathes deep, smelling himself on the jumper's neckband. Surely that's why Crowley pulled it out of the hamper instead of miracling his own, he wanted to smell like — oh, the thought makes Aziraphale's erection throb helplessly where it's trapped under Crowley's slight weight, and he bites down again, imagining his own smell rubbing off all over Crowley’s naked body.

“Mine,” Aziraphale finally says out loud. Crowley struggles to stay still as a long shudder rolls through him, but he can’t help the way it stretches his spine, makes him arch and twist in the angel's arms. Aziraphale slides his hands under the hem of the jumper, just cupping the small arc of Crowley’s belly for a moment before skimming further up. His fingertips strum over ribs and then, lightly, glide over Crowley’s breasts, soft little points dusted with wiry hair on the upper slopes. Crowley stifles a moan but Aziraphale can hear it, can feel every shift of his body as he trails his fingers up and down, over and over, sometimes brushing the tightening nipples with a too-light touch, sometimes avoiding them entirely.

“Angel, fuck, what you do to me,” Crowley gasps, trying to push up against those teasing fingers.

“Hold still,” Aziraphale orders. The sight of the thick knitted fabric moving as he fondles Crowley’s breasts under it sends a hot flush through him, and he presses his face into Crowley’s neck, breathing deep of his smell. “I love it when you wear them like this, my dear. So tender for me.”

“Nn — you unbearable fucking tease.” Crowley is trying to snarl, but he hasn’t got the breath for it. Aziraphale spreads his fingertips around the base of each breast and draws them up, bringing them together on the nipples with the lightest possible hold, just a brief press before repeating the motion again, and again. The skin is so delicate here, the hairs sensitive to the barest touch. Crowley shivers and puts his hands over Aziraphale’s, on top of the jumper, feeling the gentle, deliberate movements of the angel's broad hands on his body.

“You’re one to talk.” Aziraphale draws his fingers up again in that soft pinch, feeling how the tips have crinkled tight under his touch, imagining the pretty coral colour deepening with the flush of Crowley’s arousal. “Coming in here, in _my_ jumper, and practically nothing else…” 

“Ssso that’s what it’s about, then.” The breathless need in Crowley’s voice, the power of such a delicate touch to drive him to the edge so quickly, make Aziraphale almost light-headed. “Would’ve done it sssooner if I’d known.”

“I thought this was _unbearable_.” A vicious little flick of the fingernails, making Crowley cry out, then a soothing stroke of the thumb. Crowley wriggles, but Aziraphale’s dressing gown and the thick ribbed hem of the jumper are all bunched up between them, blunting the sensations. He flails an arm backward, finds the belt, and yanks at it until it comes loose. The angel's fingertips keep sliding up the soft slopes of his breasts, lingering a little more each time at the top, rolling and tugging each nipple gently between thumb and three fingers.

Crowley groans and squirms, finally managing with a particularly obscene sideways roll of his hips to shift the last of the offending flannel out of the way, and Aziraphale gasps when he feels Crowley’s arse rock down against his stiff prick. "Oh, I — _yes_ ," he moans, his mouth open and hot on Crowley's neck, just tasting him now, as he thrusts up against skin-heated silk. "Yes, Crowley, you're so — mine, you're mine, oh —"

He drops one hand down to where Crowley’s hard under the crimson fabric, holds him down that way and lets the push of his own hips rock Crowley up against his heavy hand, the palm of it shifting in small circles over the head of Crowley’s cock. Crowley can’t thrust properly, can only twitch his hips fast and desperate, whining in the back of his throat. He digs his nails into Aziraphale's thighs with a shout and suddenly he’s coming, shaking in Aziraphale's arms, arched from head to toe. Wetness pulses out under Aziraphale’s hand, drenching the silk, the sudden slickness where Crowley's most sensitive making him shudder all over again.

The sound, the wet heat, the feeling of his demon writhing against him all drive out what little thought remains in Aziraphale’s head. He clamps his arms around Crowley’s narrow waist and ruts up between his small, firm buttocks, frantic and shameless as he seeks his own pleasure. Even half-dazed from the force of his climax, Crowley still senses his urgency and goads him: “Can’t get enough of it, hey, you greedy thing — rub yourself off on me, _fuck_ , mark me up, make me yours — yeah, that's it, I’m yours, I’m yours —”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Aziraphale gasps as the pleasure spikes so fast and hard it startles him, hips bucking up, the chair rattling in protest underneath him as all his muscles tighten up at once. Then the tension lets go with a crash and he comes, shocked at the primal pleasure of shooting off all over Crowley’s arse and lower back, smearing his semen over his lover's skin with his last jerky thrusts.

For a moment, they both relax into the afterglow, Crowley sprawled over his angel in utter boneless abandon. Aziraphale rests his forehead against Crowley’s shoulder and tries to catch his breath. He's limp with bliss at first, but gradually concern begins to creep in. He's never felt such a singular urge to take before, to claim. He's certainly never thought of himself as _owning_ Crowley, or having any sort of rights to him beyond the voluntary association of equals in affection.

He lifts his head at last, and cries aloud when he sees the lurid marks he's left all down one side of the demon's long neck, deep red shading to purple in places, crescent-shaped dents where his teeth dug into the tender skin.

"Hnnf? 'S wrong?" Crowley says, jolted out of his post-orgasmic bask by the distress in Aziraphale's voice. "Angel?"

"Oh, Crowley, I've hurt you," Aziraphale says brokenly.

"Huh?"

"I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me — I didn't even _ask_ — and now you're hurt, and I —" Aziraphale covers his face with his hands, too ashamed to risk seeing the disappointment in Crowley's eyes.

"Aziraphale, hey, wait." Crowley scrambles around to face him, still on his lap, and tugs at his hands without success. "Can you — come on now — can you look at me, please, because I have literally no idea what you're talking about."

"Your _neck_!" Aziraphale wails into his hands. "Your poor neck!"

Crowley reaches for his phone, which is on the kitchen table where he expects it to be, and opens the front camera. "Bloody Nora, angel," he says, tipping his head back for a better view, "you did a number on me."

"I can't apologize enough," Aziraphale whispers. "I only hope you can find it in your heart to —"

But Crowley is laughing, full and hearty, the kind of laugh that comes up from so deep in the lungs that it shakes the whole body.

"It's not funny, Crowley!" Aziraphale snaps, but he can't hear that wonderful open sound — so rare in all their years, so much more common now that they're free — without beginning to hope that maybe it _is_ funny, a little bit, or at least not the disaster he feared.

"I'm not hurt," Crowley finally manages. "Not even a little. It felt _fantastic_."

"But they're so… red," Aziraphale says. "I never get them like that when you do it."

"S'cause I make sure not to, there's a trick to it."

"Is the trick being a demon who can use magic?"

"Little bit, yeah." Crowley gives him a little smile, almost shy.

"Like 'em, though. Like that you marked me up."

Aziraphale touches a red mark where it disappears into the jumper, and Crowley shivers pleasantly. "You must let me apologize for being so peremptory with you, at the very least. I was…"

"A maniac, yeah. No, I liked it!" Crowley adds hastily when the angel cringes. "I did, I promise. I know the difference between the bad kind of possessiveness and the kind that's just, like, getting extra randy over someone wearing your shirt."

"I wish I could refute that description," Aziraphale says, "but, alas..." He kisses the demon's cheek. "It's a pity I wouldn't fit into anything of yours. Any _clothes_ , you horrid thing, don't start."

"Rats."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Weezer's "Undone (The Sweater Song)." Don't ask me how many times I had to replace "sweater" with "jumper" in this.
> 
> I am trying to fret less over posting things, so this one hasn't been betaed in any way. I am at once confident in the artistic quality of my work and deathly afraid of typos.
> 
> Thanks as always to my beloved ice cream bar [voidbat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidbat).


End file.
